


Where the night may take her

by Kim_Gwenhwyfar



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Birthday Dinner, F/M, Flashbacks, Mention of m/m relationship, Non-canon pairings, Overcoming past, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Red Room, See end notes for detailed description of triggers, Trigger Warnings, canon pairings - Freeform, triggering content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2015-11-16
Packaged: 2018-05-01 21:37:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5221796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kim_Gwenhwyfar/pseuds/Kim_Gwenhwyfar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a birthday dinner, Natasha walks to her apartment. On the way, she gets assaulted by her past in the form of a present threat.</p><p>Vague description on purpose. I've put the most important triggers in the header. <b>If you want a detailed list of triggers, please consult the endnotes on the first chapter.</b></p><p> </p><p>  <b>Excerpt:</b><br/><i>At 23:30, the streets were deserted. The restaurant was located in a residential area, and the good people of New York were abed on a Tuesday at this hour. Natasha always enjoyed quiet nights, they gave her a certain peace of mind she could rarely, if ever, find during the day. The night was her playground, when the insects of society scurried out of their hiding spots. And spiders just happen to eat insects.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>After a couple of minutes ambulating down the road, she noticed someone walking behind her. He or she walked at a brisk pace, probably taking a dog out for the night. Natasha slowed her own breathing and listened more closely to the sounds behind her. They had a heavy gait; it was probably a man. Best cross the streets just to be safe. Or, rather, to avoid any interaction with the guy. She wasn't in the mood for any trouble tonight.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night falls

**Author's Note:**

> **TRIGGERS**  
>  Again, huge trigger warning for rape/non-con. A detailed list of triggers can be found in the end notes. A couple of triggers kinda give some spoilers away, those can be found near the end.
> 
>  **FEEDBACK**  
>  I appreciate every comment or kudos, anonymous or not.  
> Grammar or spelling mistakes? Factual errors? Let me know! :-)

"Bye guys! Thanks again!"

Natasha waved after the taxi that took Steve and Sam to their shared Brooklyn apartment, concluding the evening of her birthday dinner. It was only a 20 minute walk to her own apartment, one of the sparsely decorated safe-houses she owned and therefore no taxi was needed for herself. She'd really wanted to eat at a specific Lebanese restaurant, a local hole in the wall, so she had figured she might as well sleep at her SoHo apartment for that night.

The dinner had been amazing. She never celebrated her birthday, but Steve had been adamant that November 22, 2015 was important and should be commemorated with a dinner. Regardless of the fact that it wasn't her real birthday and 31 wasn't her real age, she'd been more than happy to indulge him. Especially since she always enjoyed the time off she spent with Sam and Steve, who was so different when he wasn't Captain America. Tony and Pepper had swung by for drinks after, but as usual they had only been able to stay for a short while before duty called them away.

 

At 23:30, the streets were deserted. The restaurant was located in a residential area, and the good people of New York were abed on a Sunday at this hour. Natasha always enjoyed quiet nights, they gave her a certain peace of mind she could rarely, if ever, find during the day. The night was her playground, when the insects of society scurried out of their hiding spots. And spiders just happen to eat insects.

After a couple of minutes ambulating down the road, she noticed someone walking behind her. He or she walked at a brisk pace, probably taking a dog out for the night. Natasha slowed her own breathing and listened more closely to the sounds behind her. She couldn't hear the patter of dog paws. They had a heavy gait; it was probably a man. Best cross the streets just to be safe. Or, rather, to avoid any interaction with the guy. She wasn't in the mood for any trouble tonight.

As she stopped to survey the street for cyclists or those damn electric cars that are too silent for people's safety, she heard the man quicken his pace. A siren in the distance started wailing, but it was still a couple of streets away. She stepped off the sidewalk, or rather, tried to, for the stranger had grabbed her bag in a tight hold.

"Let go, asshole!"

She tugged at her bag, but the man (her guess had turned out to be correct) had an iron grip on the handle.

"I'd rather not, sugar."

A gloved hand closed around her arm. He leaned in close. "Don't scream."

"Fuck you!" She bit out.

Why, on tonight of all nights, had she left her Widow's cuffs at home? It would have been beyond easy to stun this lowlife with a Widow's bite. She drew a breath, hell bent on making a shit ton of noise. Sensing her decision to disobey him, however, the man grabbed her by the neck and started choking. His grip was strong; it would have been difficult for her to break his fingers. It was also extremely effective. Natasha had to use all the air she could still inhale to keep from passing out. _Shit, shit, shit._

 

Just as dark spots began to cloud her vision, he loosened his grip on her throat a bit.

"Like I said, no screaming." He growled.

His face was obscured by a baseball cap pulled low over his brow, the shadow of the lamplight overhead obscuring his features. She kept silent and was granted another margin of freedom to draw breath.

"Well, well, you're quite a looker, aren't you? Ain't I just in luck tonight."

She wanted to tell him he would definitely not be 'in luck', but her training had taught her that it was probably best to play meek instead.

"What do you want from me? Please let me go, I won't tell a soul." Her voice came out hoarse.

She shrugged the bag off her shoulder. "You can have it, take it, please don't hurt me!"

Unfortunately, it seemed he wouldn't be content with just taking her bag. Still holding her arm with his right hand, the assailant ruffled through her bag with the left. He took out her driver licence.

"You ain't going anywhere" He smirked, his voice tinged with the barest of Irish accents. "Miss..." He took a look at the license again. "Audrey Grant." 

Thank god she always carried her aliases with her, the ID corresponding with the alias that belonged to the address she would be at that night. No matter, safehouses could be discarded easy enough. Even though many people now knew her face from television, it wouldn't sit well with her to have him know her real name. He didn't seem to recognize her from the Senate hearings. Thank god for small mercies.  
The man rifled through her purse once more, and she sensed, more than she felt, his grip on her arm relaxing. Taking the chance, she stomped on his foot with her heel and made a run for it.

"You fucking _cunt_!" His voice cracked on the last 'u'. She was almost across the street and into the light of a street lamp when he collided with her again. She was fast; he was faster.  
He pulled her into an alley and she felt the sharp edge of a blade against her throat while his left hand held her head back against the front of his shoulder.

"I should kill you for that."

The blade moved a fraction, slicing into her skin. Natasha felt a short pang of panic, her adrenaline-fueled ally and foe in one. She tugged at his knife-wielding arm, but he moved the other one to pin both her arms down. He kept them tight against her body and she could feel the muscles rippling under his shirt as he stood obscenely close to her. She smelled his cheap cologne.

"I shall take my revenge in another form, though."

He whispered in her ear. Then he licked the side of her face, from her neck to her cheek. Hot shame coursed through Natasha. She was a goddamn black widow, how could she have let someone best her like this?

"Now listen, _fraochÚn dearg_ , or I will not hesitate to end your life. We are going to your home. You are going to make up to me for hurting my foot. Try anything funny, I will plant this knife in you. And it won’t kill you instantly, you fucking _ráicleach_."

With a violent jerk, he pulled her back onto the sidewalk. She stood in front of him while he hailed a cab. Her hands were almost numb by the time a yellow taxi pulled over to the curb from his crushing grip on her wrists where he kept them together behind her back. Before she was able to get in, however, the man spoke low in her ear.

“Don’t go pulling any stunts now. I will gladly kill the fucker behind the wheel as well.”

 

He released her to get in the cab. For a second she contemplated yelling to the cabbie to drive off while her assailant was still outside, but her moment passed as his leg was already there, brushing against her. She scooted over faster than she had thought herself capable, surprising even herself. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t even allow her any respite. Draping one arm menacingly over her shoulder, Natasha could feel the smart sting of a knife tip in her side, concealed under his jacket. For the hundredth’ time in as many seconds she mourned the absence of her Widow’s cuffs.

“Where to, ma’am?” The cabbie asked.

Before she could speak, the man had already opened his mouth and provided him with her address. Fucking State of New York with their obsession with putting addresses on driver's licences.  
During the short ride over, Natasha stared out of the window. The magic of her night, which 15 minutes ago had looked so peaceful, was broken. Now she could only hope to survive ‘till morning.

 

Adding insult to injury, the man paid the cab driver with her money.

“Have a good night!” The cabbie called to them, winking lewdly.

It disgusted her. Worse still, the man grinned back.

“I’m sure we will, won’t we honey?”

He jabbed her painfully in her side with the knife. Not trusting her voice, it was all she could do to nod once, sharply.  
For one blissful moment, the knife disappeared from her waist as he climbed out of the cab. His arm reached back in, making a show of helping her out of the back. In reality, he used the moment to return his vice-like grip on her arm.

 

As the cab pulled away from the curb, the man rummaged around in her bag once more, fishing her keys out. Desperately, Natasha tried once more to persuade him to let her go.

“Please, please let me go. I swear I will forget this ever happened. I haven’t even seen your face. You don’t have to do this!”

Her attacker smiled from under his cap, all menacing teeth, his eyes still concealed from her vision.  _Her would-be rapist’s eyes_ , the ugly words flashed through her mind. Then he lifted his right hand and slapped her smartly across her face.

“I don’t believe I asked you anything, _aiteann_.”

 

Tears sprung to Natasha’s eyes. It had been a long time since she had been this humiliated. The last time must have been decades ago, while she was still a student in the Red Room and one of her instructors was displeased with her progress.  
She hardly had time to blink the tears -tears she would not allow him to see- away before he pushed her in front of him towards the entrance of her apartment building. Located in a poorer part of the district, the apartment building had no lock on the door. Her unit is on the second floor. She had picked it so she could easily hear people try to enter from the outside but also would survive a jump from the window if the attackers would come for her via the stairs. Fat fucking good it did her now. Pushing her towards the stairs, the man instructed her to walk towards her apartment.

“And again, don’t fucking try anything.”

She took the stairs two at a time, her mind going 100 miles an hour. The apartment was on the end off the hall, behind a fire door. Maybe she could shake him off, take a dive through the window next to her door. It couldn’t hurt worse to land on the pavement than whatever he had in mind for her.

He was walking closely behind her, but wasn’t holding her. When he was in the stair’s bend, she took off, fright giving her wings. She had the advantage of knowing her building. Now she was taking the stairs three at a time, her legs burning from the stretch. He bit out a curse, cut short by the fire door she had just gone through hitting him in the shoulder, the spring mechanism impeding his progress for a second or two. It would have to be enough. Natasha sprinted to the window, not daring to look behind her. 

 

The window had been nailed shut.

 

 _JESUS CHRIST_.

 

She stepped back to lift her leg, aiming to break the window. And she stepped right into his grip.

“You are going to be sorry for that, _fraochÚn_!”

His hand snaked around her waist, pulling her body once more against his. He pinched her breast roughly.

“I hope you’re as feisty in bed, bitch.”

 

Keeping her bodily trapped against her front door, he tried her keys. The second one opened the door.  
Natasha would've gone to her knife block on the counter, if only she had been able to take a step inside. Instead, he kept pushing her against the door, using the momentum to push her face-down to the ground. His knee landed none too soft in her back, forcing the air out of her lungs.

 

The man used one hand to shut the door, pressing her head into the floor with the other.

“Will you be quiet?”

Natasha pressed her lips together. She was not about to give him the satisfaction of answering. He gave her head a rough shake.

“Well?”

She nodded.

“Good. I’m going to stand up now. Don’t move.”

He released her back from under his knee, moving to stand. Natasha immediately did the same. Using her not inconsiderable upper arm strength, she propelled herself off the floor and into her living room. The man released a curse and took off after her. Again, she didn’t get as far as she would’ve hoped. His left hand shot out after a couple of steps and pulled her back by her hair. The sudden halt of her forward momentum made her stumble back, which he used to force her to her knees on the carpet in the middle of her living room, one foot crushing her calf painfully under his boot.

“You whore! If you won’t listen, I’ll have to teach you.”

He released her hair and she heard his hands go to his belt, undoing the buckle. It slid through the loops, spelling certain doom. Her hands were pulled back, the cold nylon cord wrapping firmly around both her wrists.

“ _A Black Widow never gives up! Perhaps you are not Black Widow material after all!_ ”

It had been sixty years, but the taunting words of her instructors in the Red Room ringed in her ears as if they were spoken aloud in the moment itself. She would not give them the satisfaction of proving them right, even if most, if not all, of them were probably dead. So Natasha rocked on her knees, whipping her head forward. If she’d guessed correctly, it would hit him in the sack on the way back. But she would never find out, because she was not given the chance to let the back of her head connect with her attacker’s body. He yanked her arms even further up, past the point her shoulder joints would comfortably allow.

“ _Tut tut tut_ , I wouldn't do that.”

Her hands were yanked back down, the belt making a final loop around her right ankle, where it was tied. She was now effectively immobilized, her back hollow, breasts jutted up and outwards. 

 

“If you insist on using your head, I know a much better pastime for you, honey.”

The man whispered in her ear. It was worse than if he’d just spoken aloud, the forced intimacy jarring.  
He walked around her, unzipping while he went. Her hair, a tangled mess by now, was gripped again, fingers of his other hand working her clenched mouth open. When she had given him enough, he fed her his cock.

“Don’t even think about using your teeth, minx. The man told her.

Using the hand that had just forced himself in her mouth, he felt behind him, returning with his knife to her throat seconds later.

“I won’t admit it would be a shame to finish you off before before you finish me,” He chuckled darkly about his wordplay. “But don’t think I won’t. Now use that clever tongue of yours for the purpose it was intended to.”

Mindful of the knife at her throat, Natasha gingerly started to suck him off. He smelled and tasted clean, thank god for small mercies. After a minute or two, she dared to glance up, but in the darkness of her apartment all she could see of his face was the gleam of the white of his eyes as they stared down at her. When he saw her look, the grip in her hair tightened once more, janking her face forward on his penis. The sudden movement made her gag, eyes watering.

“If you can look around, you can take more of me, I gather.”

His Irish accent had deepened a fraction. Most people in her situation would not notice, but Natasha had been trained to observe even under the worst of circumstances. She couldn’t count the number of times in her life she had wished her parents had never died, or that she had died with them. Once, she had been proud to have been taught that her body was a vessel for men to do with as they pleased, a vessel to serve Mother Russia with. It seemed that after 26 years of freedom, faith had decided that Natasha would once again be on her knees, serving as a warm, wet hole for someone who yielded more power than her.

 

The hand that was behind her head, still encased in a glove, started moving her forward and back by her hair, fingers digging in her skull. She was no longer given even a measure of control, her mouth being used as an orifice to fuck. He pulled her back then jammed his dick in, just _so_. She had to give her all not to give him the satisfaction of gagging, though his girth made the task difficult.

“Jesus, yes, you _aiteann_ , fuck yes, like that…” the man choked out above her head. She could only hope it would be over soon. 

 

Unfortunately, it was not to be.

 

He took the knife from her throat as he stepped away, looking down on her.

“That was excellent, minx. A good start to the reparations you owe me. But I want to possess you completely. Look at me.”

She kept looking down at his shoe instead.

“I said, look at me!”

Another slap, this time with the heel of his hand. Natasha looked up at him.

“Are you wet yet?”

The question was so out of place, it shocked her into answering.

“Of course not!”

“Damn shame, that! I don’t like my dick chafed. We must fix that, then.”

He gave her shoulders a push, toppling her backwards. Without her hands to break the fall, she landed with a muffled thud on her back, her head somewhat protected from injury by the plush carpet.

 

He went to his knees, surveying her as she lay, breasts jutted towards the ceiling and unable to close her legs, the skirt of her party dress pooled around her waist. She lost sight of him when he bent further down. 

 

A low wolf whistle emerged from his lips.

“Well well, seems like you were hoping for some action this evening. Glad to be of service, lemme tell ya.”

He was referencing the lace panties she was wearing, a companion piece to the bra she had on. They were a favorite set of hers, reserved for special occasions.

“Fuck you.” Natasha spoke in low tones.

“Don’t worry, _luv_ ,” His voice took on a cold timbre. “You will.” 

 

Fear took her retort away as she felt the cold metal of his knife on her thigh. It was a small relief when she felt him slice her pantyhose and panties open. She dared not move, lest he nick an artery and leave her to bleed to death on the ground of some safehouse, to be found by neighbors, probably when her body had begun to decompose.

 _Curse her life, curse whatever path that her led her to this day_. 

 

Divested from her undergarments, the cold November air had free reign to caress her body. Not for long however, as the cold was replaced by his hot mouth giving her a languorous lick, baseball cap apparently divested. Her body shook. He did it again.

“You were right, _Dearg_. You aren't wet enough yet. _Yet_.” The asshole grunted.

His left hand reached up to fondle her breast, pinching and rolling the nipple roughly while his right hand had gripped her thigh. Natasha had thought that having her mouth fucked was the ultimate insult. She had been wrong. Being eaten out by her rapist was that much worse. But worst of all, she felt her body respond to his touch, whether her mind wanted it or not. She tried to close her legs, force him away. He was having none of it. Her right leg was impaired by her hands tied to it, while her left was forced to the side by his hand. He held it so tight it would surely leave bruises.

Meanwhile, he was still licking, his pointed tongue forcing its way inside her on every stroke. The stubble on his chin rasped her labia. Whatever else he was, she was forced to admit that his technique was damn near flawless. Other men she had had to allow access to her body in this way were sloppy, abandoning the effort after a couple of half-hearted passes to quell their conscience, if at all.  
His right hand left her leg, his mouth ceasing its ministrations. She hoped he was satisfied with the juices he had wrung from her, more than enough to keep his cock from _chafing_. A moment passed.

“You ain't taste half bad, my _ráicleach._ ” He purred. “Not bad at all.”

 

His fingers, now rid of the glove, penetrated her as his mouth returned. Natasha started to cry, silently. In and out and in again, while his tongue and lips assaulted her clit. It simply was too much. The shame of being overpowered warred with the memories of her bed partners, the ones she had let in her bed willingly, who had enjoyed her thus. She closed her eyes and let out a choked cry when the orgasm washed over her, caused by the intense sucking on her clit and his digits in her.

“I told you I would be helpful, didn't I?” He groaned. “Goddamnit it, you are a minx. I knew you'd secretly want it too.”

Natasha rolled over to her side, closing her legs against the protestations of her back. She hid her face in the carpet, her treacherous come pooling, cold, in the hollow of her thigh.

 

He had bested her. Her body, her mind. Her soul. She remembered how many men had already been granted access to her, the knife absent from their hands, perhaps, but the ghost of it still firmly felt against her throat, sharpened by threats and compliments alike.

“ _Natalia will not fail, will she?_ ”

“ _A Black Widow does what her country needs of her._ ”

“ _Follow orders, or face Russia’s cold wrath.”_

 

The man did not know of the turmoil in her head. He had gotten up, taken off his clothing (the sounds of cotton and denim barely registering) and knelt at her back now. The sudden loosening of his belt from around her ankle and wrists caused the blood to pool back in. She cried out from the stinging, so much like the stinging she had felt once as she had willingly electrocuted herself. He rolled her on her front, her arms spread limply next to her. She closed her eyes.

 

“ _Shh._ ” He hushed her, caressing her ass cheek. “You've done well. I'm sure you’ll enjoy this as well.”

He spread her legs and, grasping himself, pushed in fluidly from behind. She nearly gagged from the smell of his cologne permeating her nose.

“Fuck, yes, that’s it, Jesus, fuck!”

He panted, stilling inside and above her. His left arm held most of his weight off her, while his right arm fondled her breasts.

“So tight.”

His hips started moving, rolling up and down. He licked her cheek, tasted the tears.

“No need for that, my minx.”

She blindly swatted at his head, returning to herself. She would survive this. She had before.

“Glad to see the fight hasn't left you yet, _fraochÚn dearg_.”

“Go to hell.”

He lowered his body weight on her, his left hand, still gloved, finding her pulse in her neck, all the while keeping a steady pace.  
His other hand maneuvered her leg up, sneaking under her to find her clit.

“I want to feel you milk my cock.”

The pressure on her neck had her seeing spots again behind the darkness of her eyelids. She buried her face in the carpet. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing the conflict rage on her face, the mixed emotions of her body being used to these encounters and her mind refusing to accept them as part of her current life. When he was done, she vowed, she would kill him, even if she had to hunt him down to the end of the earth to do so. She doesn't have to accept this any more.

Her attacker picked up the pace, hips pumping under a litany of “Yes, fuck, yes.” He was still choking her. She allowed the darkness to take her as she came, more from a rush of feelings at rediscovering her resolve than any physical stimulation of his fingers, a cry lost to the lack of oxygen.


	2. Dawn breaks

When Natasha came to, she was on her bed. James was seated on a chair next to her, his face worried. Judging by his clothing and hair, he had taken a quick shower and shave in the meantime. No trace of the other guy remained.

“Hey.” Natasha croaked, her throat hoarse from having been constricted several times.

“Hey you.” James answered, his smile barely reaching his eyes. Any vestige of an Irish accent was gone, it’s all Brooklyn now.

Natasha reached for him. He obeyed her summons, cradling her like she was made of glass. She looked into his eyes.

“Thank you.”

He tried his smile again, this time almost genuine.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“Want to leave?”

“Very much.”

Despite his manhandling her earlier, he knew better than to treat her as anything other than strong when they walked through the living room. Past the empty space where a carpet had been just half an hour ago. She walked away from the apartment with her head held high, past the window next to her door that was devoid of nails to keep it shut.

 

When they arrived at their own apartment in Manhattan, she jumped under the shower, washing Audrey from her body and, probably, her past from her mind, if only for a while. He waited patiently in their bed. Eventually, Natalia, the woman he loved, returned to their bed.

She reached for him and he interpreted her expression correctly.

“Are you sure?”

Natasha nodded.

“I want to look into your eyes as you come, _lyubov moya_. You gave me so much tonight. Let me share my autonomy with you.”

He is not entirely adverse to the idea, if only to relieve himself of both his blue balls and the images he has of her pressed into the carpet, sobbing and defeated. James had planned to wait for Nat to fall asleep before relieving himself to mental images of other times they had enjoyed each other, violence or pressure far removed. No matter what happened, he could never allow himself to come during encounters like they had had this evening. It would feel wrong and it’s not something that would ever get him off.

 

Natasha stroked his face and climbed atop of him, their favorite position. He moaned as she guided him into her body, entirely of her own volition. He knew it was still too early for her to be able to climax again, that would take her a couple of days. Still, she made happy noises as she rode him, their eyes locked together. And when he shot into her, she kissed him, their hands entangled, metal and flesh alike.

 

As they lay together in post-coital bliss, Natalia's (she will always be Natalia to him) breathing even, he pressed a kiss in her hair.

“Happy 26th defection anniversary, _milii moi_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was important to me to write this story as a way for Natasha, queen of cognitive dissonance, to find a somewhat workable way to power through her trauma of sexual abuse in the name of The Soviet Union, from circa 1935 to 22.11.1989. 
> 
> In my headcanon, since rekindling her relationship with James, he has been found willing to play the difficult part of ultimate villain in her sexual fantasies, even though they would both prefer Natasha wouldn't have them. He is, however, the only man she would allow to tie her up, more so since he was also in the Red Room with her.
> 
> Also in my headcanon, James Buchanan Barnes is born of Irish immigrants. He would therefore know all the Gealic curse words. I know fuckall of the Irish immigration to America, Irish people in general and I'm not implying all Irish people are rapists. Just to put that out there.

**Author's Note:**

>  **TRANSLATIONS**  
>  _Irish (according to Google translate)_  
>  fraochÚn dearg = red whore  
> Ráicleach = slut  
> Aiteann = cunt
> 
>  _Russian_  
>  Lyubov moya = my love  
> Milii moi = my dear
> 
>  **STORY-SPECIFIC TRIGGER LIST (NO SPOILERS)**  
>  Rape, non-consensual sexual acts, forced sex, robbery, stranger danger, face fucking, (forced) cunnilingus, (forced) blow-job, threatened with a knife, home invasion (of sorts), abduction, erotic asphyxiation, gendered insults, violence, tied down, sensory deprivation, choking, black-outs, penis-in-vagina, restriction of movement, smell overload, crying, gagging, forced orgasm, cursing, coarse language.
> 
>  _[Please inform me if you feel you are missing a trigger from this list]._  
> 
>  **CHARACTER-SPECIFIC TRIGGERS (NO SPOILERS)**  
>  Red Room, Russia, mistreatment of children (mentioned), kidnapping (mentioned), identity switch, death (mentioned), (non-sexual) child abuse (mentioned), nationalism, flashbacks.
> 
>  **TRIGGERS CONTAINING (POSSIBLE) SPOILERS**  
>  Consensual non-con, rape fantasies, kink, trauma-processing through kink


End file.
